Suck in your lips,
now push air between them to
make that *PUH* noise. PUH
is my love. The only one I’d
marry is the Bandersnatch, for
only he may find me. This
is my predetermined
because that kiss really did
scare me. I’m speaking to Kisser
so don’t listen, you literate muck.
(Thank you forever,
for sealing off my toxins
to push your soft anti-
anesthesia inside. It
worries me that the scent of
my nicotine mocked
your lust. Cracked
your lungs. Results? Madly
your butchered eye follows the
hips and the disease churns.
I gave you my incurable risk
that will kill. Your stolen heart. Sorry
I’m so sorry, (confidential:
knowing one’s name
without revealing it).
If anyone finds me before
Darling Bander, I’m
adding toxicology to
my hobbies. But men are not
the enemies here. It’s the sticky
wrap that straddled my
pumpkin until it turned to pie. I
ate the sticky wrap, pushing the
plastic against my teeth
every lunch. That civilized
nicotine that kills you slower than
a perturbed mouse; but
I quit last September
and the sky surprised me. She
licked my eyebrow and dripped
my hair. She’s my cute
serendipitous Guinevere.
Sky wanted to disinfect all but
that kiss. It provoked my PUH. It
avowed my only lover clothed in
rock covers and a casebound spine.
Good Fruit 